Liminal
by Quasi-Verbatim
Summary: Things like names and swords and lands have long built the trappings of power in Westeros. Men were allowed to keep these things; donning armor, wielding swords, and ruling their lands in the name of their ancestors. Women are allowed only to keep their faces. "We all wear our armor differently, but we all must wear it."
1. One

The door latched quietly behind him with a click.

His approach wasn't exactly stealthy in his full queensguard regalia. The scratching of his mail against his plates announced every movement, and the sword belted to his side-a pendulum if you did not busy your hand keeping it at rest-caused even the finest of leathers to groan at the slightest change in momentum.

He was keenly aware of the noise in a way he hadn't been since he was a boy of six and ten, newly accepted to the kingsguard and newly acquainted to their regalia. Though he knew the armor fit him like a glove, he also knew what use gloves were to handless men and he had to resist the sudden urge to adjust his armor as he found himself unable to shake the feeling that it was several sizes too large for him.

Continuing further into the room, the whisperings of steel and leather and gold _of course there was gold_ accompanied him to the center of the solar.

Still, she did not turn around.

But she did speak.

"You did not make it to my coronation dear brother."

If she had been facing him she may have seen the facsimile of a smile quirk over his lips.

"Ah, would that I could sister, but I was a bit busy dealing with the _late_ Walder Frey and the Deadfish"

This was only the third time he'd spoken to her since he'd arrived back in King's Landing, the fresh victor of two battles. By his count that was twice as many as he'd set out to fight.

"So it's true, both Walder Frey and Brynden Tully—dead?

He murmured an affirmation.

He'd seen her like this so many times, gazing out at the city from her balcony like it was a cyvasse board on which she placed every piece, not playing so much as planning out what her perfect game would be.

The picture was different in little ways—her flaxen streams of hair were cropped short, there was no goblet of wine perched carelessly in one hand, no flowery dress meant to conceal the steely severity of this woman.

There was very little to hide the severity now. Very little to hide the steel in her bones.

He wonders if her movements were given away by them in much the same way as his armor announced him.

The groaning and chafing of leather over castle forged steel.

' _We all wear our armor differently,'_ Thought a voice that felt nothing like his, ' _But we all must wear it.'_

She turned to him now, just enough to see the profile of her face by the abundant candlelight.

" _How_ exactly did they die."

There was a coldness to how she received him, there had been since he arrived.

"The blackfish died in his own castle with a sword in his hand, and Walder Frey well, if the stories are to be believed, he finally turned into a rat."

The slight narrowing of her eyes and thinning of her lips warned him that this may not have been a satisfying answer for her.

" And you deny knowing anything more than these _stories_?" There was a vexation and venom in in her voice that took him by surprise.

"Yes!" his reply was almost indignant, but she did not relent.

"You never liked Walder Frey."

His name from her lips sounded as if it was scrapped out of her teeth like the remains of a particularly unsatisfying meal.

"Neither did you!" Incredulity leaked from his voice.

"No," She agreed "but he was an ally."

He snorted, "Oh, is that what Walder Frey was to us now."

Her green eyes flared, flint igniting a spark, and all he could see was wildfire.

"He was someone who should never have been killed without consulting with me first!"

"Which is exactly why I would have never done anything to him without good reason!" He volleyed back.

She quieted.

He wondered if his mirth ever danced in his eyes like flames.

"and did you have good reason?"

Some foreign part of him screamed " _YES!"_

Her face was turned almost fully toward him now, and their twin eyes clashed.

"No."

Their eye contact was maintained for what once would have felt like no time at all, but today seemed to drag on for hours.

He struggled to convey his sincerity.

Somewhere in him, she must have found it.

Something in her relaxed and her shoulders dropped, turning more fully to face him.

Words floated from her mouth rather than be forcefully expelled.

"You missed our son's funeral."

Ah, there were hidden hurts behind the queenly ones.

She had barely spoken to him since his return. He had only been gone so long and yet so much had changed.

His relationship with Cersei used to be the only thing he felt sure of; now it was like quicksand, these lifelong foundations now shifting beneath his feet.

She had been holding court when he had arrived back, only able to offer his congratulations and the briefest reporting of his successes and concerns before being sent to his chambers "for rest and recovery". The following day he was called to a council meeting, though he hesitated to call the interrogation that followed a meeting, and struggled even moreso to describe only Qyburn and the queen herself a council.

This did not stop him from answering their questions.

He described to them the breaking of the Tully's handhold over Riverun and touched upon the misguided and ultimately futile attack by the Frey armies after they got it into their collective heads that the loss of their lord and rightful heirs was by his hand.

The meeting ended with Cersei reinstalling him as the captain of what would now be the queensguard.

Since then, he had found himself thwarted in any attempts to speak with the queen. He found that he had enough to keep him well and preoccupied in the meantime, and spent his time rather productively in a capital that for all intents and purposes seemed to be bucking under the upheaval of wars, fanaticism, and a rapidly approaching winter.

And Death. A king's death. A child king's death. _Another_ child king's death. Probably the only kind king they'd had in generations.

And the captain of his kingsguard; his uncle; his father, wasn't there.

"I did." Words seem to fail him, what could be enough? Nothing was enough. "I missed too much."

Three children sired and three children dead. He wondered at the curse Cersei had told him about; a prophecy given by a woods witch. He wondered if maybe that curse was actually his.

A rigidness in her back and caution in her eyes belied a sort of reluctant uncertainty. There was an edge to her shoulders, like something dangerous had perched upon them.

Again she spoke, words tumbling out in an overly controlled fashion as one does when there is something there to control.

"Qyburn doesn't trust you. He doesn't think I should trust you."

Qyburn-thrice damn him, the unsettling man had been near constantly at their queen's side, whispering into her ear and sometimes outright answering in her stead, and always keeping him from having a moment alone with the queen as he so desperately wanted.

Every hour spent waiting for that moment was passed in his solar, going through missives and requests both old and new, looking for angles and information that he hadn't previously been aware of. Ordering a greater presence of goldcloaks in the city in hopes of stalling the rash of crimes that broke out in the wake of the sparrows termination.

With the 'protectors' of the smallfolk dead alongside their child king and beloved queen, uncertainty and dissent were at an all time high, and their shining cloaked guards were mistrusted more than ever. With every unwarranted attack on a man of the guard came a warranted one, and regardless of what their orders were, it became increasingly clear unsettlingly quickly that every person in king's landing was aware that Cersei would never discipline a guard for taking a rough hand to the small people. With no fear of repercussion and an increasing discontent of the people, deaths by the hands of goldcloaks were beginning to outnumber the crimes of the smallfolk that had their commander placing them there in the first place.

Just this morning he amended their orders, pulling them out of the city proper to "more firmly man the gates and the red keep, protecting the queen from enemies both within and without". Only time would tell if removal of an antagonizing force would calm the people of King's Landing.

He'd had enough to occupy his time, but the meddling in his and Cersei's affairs was unacceptable.

"And what do you think?"

Moments where he was fiercer than Cersei were a rare thing, but the steel creeping into his voice and spine marked this as one of them.

Something like relief seeped into her posture making her look more like the woman he fell in love with.

"I think you are the only person in this gods forsaken world that I have ever been able to trust, but I need you to tell me Jaime. I need you to tell me that you didn't kill Walder Frey without talking to me first."

With every inch of that steel he replied.

"I did not kill Walder Frey. I killed the Blackfish, and I did so at your instruction, I did it for you. To get back to you as quickly as possible, but I wasn't quick enough, and for that I will be sorry forever."

There was something about the way she looked at him now, about the heavy breath that escaped her, that made her seem a little less burdened.

"Thank you."

And just like that, he was her most trusted compatriot once again.

He could practically feel her let her guard down.

"So much has happened in the weeks since you departed. I imagine some of it reached you on the road, and I imagine you know far more by now if you've actually taken the time to read the pile of dispatches that have built up on your desk in the intervening weeks."

"I have." he assured her, and he recieved a look of approval before her expression darkened and a sneer enveloped her face.

"So, you know that the Targaryen has made landfall in Dorne. And who came with her."

"Are you referring to her hundred thousand strong army, or her three dragon children?"

"I'm referring to the kinslaying monstrous little shit that is our brother!" She seethed.

Jaime was thrown for a moment as he realized that Cersei was less concerned with the Targaryen woman actively trying to take her throne than she was with the thought of her doing it with Tyrion at her side.

Jaime chose his words carefully.

"Yes, and he'll have to be dealt with, but I think the army knocking at our door and the dragons circling above us will be our greatest threat."

She waved a hand at him dismissively, impatience clear in the gesture.

"How many wars have been fought in our lifetimes, and how many times have we not come out on top? We have a large enough army to man the walls of this city for years to come and enough food to outlast a siege for some time. The Baratheons, the Starks, the Tyrells, the Tullys; all decimated and no longer a threat to us. This Targaryen girl and her Dornish allies are the last obstacle we have to face."

His mind raced as he tried to see the logic of her plan, The city might be able to outlast a siege, but they were meant to rule the seven kingdoms from here, how could they rule anything while under siege? While it was true many of their enemies had been heavily curtailed, there was already talk of a new King in the North, and another army under a wolf banner. If the city we're to last through a siege with it's current food stores, it would mean completely cutting off the small folk, only feeding the army and the royal house, and even then it would mean cutting deeply into the winter stores during a winter that is expected to last for a decade or more.

Cersei was looking at him, waiting for a response, and not sure which one to give, he brought up the obvious.

"What of the dragons?"

The look she gave him now brought him back to his childhood, it was a sly look that told him that she had a plan and she thought he was going to like it.

He wasn't sure what to make of that look right now.

"You didn't think I would use all of the wildfire to blow up that damn sept did you? I found stores of it Jaime, hundreds of barrels; I needn't have used it all. So I removed some and set it aside in case I had need of it someday. That day simply came sooner than I thought."

Jaime was speechless, or wanted to be, but he felt the words stutter their way out of his mouth.

"What-how will wildfire help against dragons?"

She gave him her most clever look now, like she was revealing a trick.

"Not against the dragons; against the girl who controls the dragons."

His brow furrowed; he was missing something.

How will we get close enough to the girl to kill her with wildfire?"

"It's not a weapon, it's a deterrent."

He spoke slowly.

"How."

There was a pride in how she held herself now, a regality, but it was overwritten by a desperate sort of fury and an excitement that reminded him disturbingly of his eldest son.

"The barrels will be hidden throughout the city and the Targaryen girl will be informed. If the girl wants to rule over anything but a pile of ashes, and if she wants the love of her people as much as she so desperately seems to, then she won't bring a dragon, a torch, or an arrow within shouting distance from the walls."

Jaime was quiet for some time.

Long enough for Cersei's patience to run out.

"Well?"

Jaime returned his gaze from the city sprawled out beyond the balcony to green eyes more familiar than his own.

"And it's in this way that you'll force a siege that you believe we can win, or die trying."

"Oh no, none of the wildfire will be placed in the keep or near the walls. All of it will be centered in civilian areas. If she decides that killing us would be worth razing the city, she will find herself extremely disappointed when we and our armies with our walls intact are the only things to come out unscathed."

She was looking through him now at something he couldn't see.

"And all those people who scorned me and spat on me and laughed at me as I bled will either live under my rule, or burn like their dear high sparrow."

Her eyes slowly dragged up his body until they met his.

He read a need there, so different from the cold reception he received when he entered the room.

He wondered how he had gotten here, how things change so quickly.

He wondered how she had been so quick to trust him when it had apparently been so easy to sway her against him.

He thought about how she dealt with Joffrey's death by throwing herself into a witch hunt; how with Myrcella, she plotted revenge on Dorne.

He wondered who she blamed for Tommen's death. For the way the stone pavers stopped his fall, would she burn the whole city down?

She was looking at him and he was looking at her. She was beautiful still, even with her hair cropped short. This did not surprise him.

"Are you with me?"

Was he with her?

They had shared a womb together, and never chosen to untangle themselves since.

"Yes, Always."

He had been with her at the start, and he would be with her right to the very end.

That look of need in her eyes was something that would have sent him jumping, agreeing to anything for her in years past, and he found it was not so different now either.

She gave him a smile, more diminished than those of years past, when all of their children had been alive and he had been whole; but it was still a lovely smile.

She turned her back on him, moving towards the balcony.

A well placed glance was thrown over her shoulder, her eyes a smolder, her hips coy.

And this was a game he knew how to play with one hand tied behind his back.

He followed her, but his steps were paced and patient where she was not and she peered over her shoulder once again to see him press a hand queerly to his forehead.

 _Headaches._

Father used to get them all the time, though she was sure he didn't think anyone had noticed. She had of course, but she of all people understood the need to keep up appearances. So she never said anything, only instructing his cupbearer to pour him water rather than wine on those evenings when he would exhibit the signs.

Signs like the pressing of two fingers fingers into his hairline.

With his hair cropped short and his remaining hand crossed over his face obscuring his features, she was struck in a way she never had been before by his resemblance to father. Jaime had changed much in recent years, even in the short time since he had returned from the riverlands she had sensed a change in him. One that she was finding she approved of. Jokes we're no longer his preferred form of communication, and there was an air of seriousness to him that was befitting of his station.

The city was laid out before her and when she turned her attention back to it, confident that Jaime would come to her soon enough; she thought of father. She wondered if he would be proud of her. If he would have finally seen the potential that she had always carried inside of her, if he had still lived today.

This city might burn in a few weeks, but by the end of all the fighting, she swore that whatever else comes, Tyrion would meet his fate.

Jaime moved behind her, she could hear the metals and leathers of his armor protesting as he pressed close to her back.

Her eyes slid shut as she let herself bask in the touch of the only person she would ever need in this world. Leaned into him, allowing his hands to settle low on her hips.

Then her eyes snapped open.

 _Hands._

"What-"

Then she was being lifted and thrust over the rails of the balcony.

She'd been half tuned in inquiry when he'd begun to lift her, allowing her to get a better grip on the banister than she otherwise might have, and as he tossed the rest of her over the ledge, she managed to maintain it.

"Jaime!"

As her equilibrium recovered from her sudden inversion, her eyes latched onto the figure in front of her.

The armor of the queensguard stood proudly before her, but in it was someone she'd never seen before.

She had a moment to register, _woman_ and _dark hair_ , before she registered _strong_ as her attacker's hands _(hands)_ pressed at the tendons in the wrist she had locked over the banister.

Her other limbs scrambled clumsily at the facade for purchase, her free hand sliding between two of the bars, only to be crushed under the heel of her attacker as her hand with purchase gave free.

Her stomach jumped inside of her, anticipating the fall, but the woman's grip on her wrist held for just a moment longer.

Just long enough for her to register her _grey_ _eyes_ , and while she felt as though she had no air left in her lungs, a small gasp escaped her.

It really was a slight thing, but the woman- _girl_ must have heard it because her _grey_ eyes narrowed and she bared her teeth just slightly.

"The things I do for love."

And then the pressure on her wrist was gone and she felt the wind's fingers pulling at her clothes and heard it whistling in her ears, and her thoughts scattered to the far corners of recent conversations and her own confusion, and _how!? How was she here?_ and _Jaime Jaime Jaime_ and _Joffrey Myrcella Tommen_ and _shame shame shame_ and-

-and her eyes didn't see the city as it sped by.


	2. Two

Jaime Lannister gazed unseeing at the familiar grotesque of post battle. Bodies lay cooling, strewn across landscapes of red like poppies in spring.

But it wasn't spring.

The white ravens had come, blinking their black eyes and heralding in winter.

The cold had not quite reached this far south, but he could feel the absence of heat as keenly as the corpses littered before him could not.

The Freys. _The Fools_.

Walder and his dubiously selected heirs got themselves killed shortly after his departure from the twins and between all the infighting on heritage and inheritance, the only thing the bumbling lot of idiots can agree on is that he must have been the one to give the order.

Happily ignoring the question of why he would do such a thing after having just helped deliver Riverun into their greedy little hands, they quickly gathered their armies and made haste after their scapegoat.

Jaime might have been their scapegoat, but he was certain that he was someone else's patsy. Whomever did kill Walder Frey and his heirs, it certainly wasn't a coincidence that they did so so near the time of his departure.

Giving credit where it's due, the Freys were smart enough to know that if he was able to make it back to King's Landing to join with the rest of the Lannister forces, they'd lose their opportunity for recompense.

They were, however, either not smart enough or not organized enough to capitalize on the possible pincer movement they could have achieved by coordinating with their remaining forces at Riverun.

The main contingent from the twins was sighted by scouts a half day march from the Lannister contingent. Runners were sent, but never returned. Jaime instructed his forces to make camp on nearby high ground, and allowed the Frey forces to come.

In theory the Frey's had the numbers to contend with his men, but the Lannister army was well trained, well equipped, and had the high ground. Any chance the Frey's had was undercut by the disarray of their command. No one seemed to be following orders from the same person, there seemed to be several men delivering orders with no clear chain of command.

It was only after the battle when some survivors were questioned that Jaime learned that reinforcements had been expected from Riverun after all, and the option of retreat had been discarded in favor of waiting on them.

While a second, smaller army did arrive, they arrived about two and half hours too late.

Seems Walder Frey passed on more than just a weak chin to his numerous scion.

They managed a bit better, if only because they did call a retreat.

It was some days later, when the battlefield had been seen to, and the army was halted as the wounded we're being given what care they could, that he received more information from the now captive survivors of the Frey's army.

A young boy, a runner that had come from the Twins in the hours before the battle had begun, carried with him a missive with news of King's Landing.

Horrible news.

News he refused to believe.

He sent his own runners out to see what information they could gather until one arrived back with with something more than gossip of raging green fires, violent streets, and a mad queen. Until one came with a letter.

A letter from Cercei.

A letter admitting to her actions, taking pride in them, mourning their son.

He holed himself up in his tent with one missive, one letter, and a wineskin that couldn't seem to block out the ghosts that kept screaming 'burn them! burn them all!'

The only thing in his life he didn't give up for Cersei was his honor, which he had already thrown on the Targaryen funerary pyre in place of the people of King's Landing.

The most honorable thing he'd ever done in his life also made him one of the most reviled men on this side of the narrow sea.

And he'd never regretted it. He withstood the sneers and the distrust. Held onto the tatters on his name and reputation as if he'd preferred them that way. He'd given up his children to a man he hated for Cersei's protection. He'd given up his inheritance and right to bear those children to the very throne that broke his oaths to protect, and he did those things to be closer to Cersei.

 _The Mad Queen_

They were already calling her that, as unaware as they all were with Aerys's threats that day, as unaware as they all were as to how deeply the similarities ran.

He'd once run his sword through a king for threatening to do what Cersei--his beloved, his love, his partner, his everything--had now done.

She bid him come home, recalled from the battlefield, but he remained stuck here with the wounded.

Something in him, something he'd only felt so strongly twice in his life, something he hesitated to call honor, made demands of him.

He had only one thing left to give and it was the one thing he could not cede; Cersei.

This unwanted burning part of him he preferred to shun, like it caused the world to shun him, it knew what needed to be done just as surely as he knew he could not do it.

This was when she came to him, alone in his tent with his demons and two parchments. She was a ghost with no face and an offer as horrible as it was practical. As much an answer as an end, as much a savior as an executioner.

It seemed he had something more to give after all.

And in the end, he gave it freely.

\--

Breath trickles out of her in the way that bodies necessitate.

She had hardly exerted herself, but she could feel the blood rushing through her veins, encouraging her lungs to contract more rapidly than was strictly necessary.

She could feel her fingers-all ten of them-and the palms they were attached to.

She pressed the ridges of her nails into them in alternating patterns, reminding herself that neither were phantoms.

She wiggled her toes and scrunched her feet in boots that now had room to spare.

She rolled her shoulders, breathed deep to feel the resistance of her armor-no, not hers, never hers- against her chest, pressed one hand to the juncture of her thighs and sighed at the lack of a protrusion.

Her breath hitched when, for a moment, she wondered if that was right-wasn't there supposed to be something more there? Panic trickled into her mind as the feeling of being less, being wrong flooded through her. knowing intrinsically that pieces had been stripped away from her- like a picture puzzle whose pieces had been lost somewhere along the way.

she instructed her hands to move further, past the gap where she felt something should be, and felt herself calm.

There was never meant to be a growth between her legs, only depths.

She waited for her breathing to even out, letting her mind fall carefully blank before removing her hand and opening her eyes.

The twilight of a city spread before her beyond the balcony. This centered her. There was no confusion here. She knew this place. Knew it like a scar long carved into her skin. She felt no wonder at the raised edges.

Removing a face-especially one she had worn for so long-could be disorienting.

She had been surprised by how easily she slipped into the skin of Jaime Lannister. She had expected to have to search for the memories, the emotions that would allow her to become him. She thought she would have to stretch to fit the life and thoughts he'd had.

Then again, she'd never worn a face this fresh, never worn a face of someone she'd known.

Even still, how readily she'd fallen into him surprised her. The more she wore him, the more she learned about him; the more surprised she became.

However, the disassociation when coming back to herself was...concerning.

As it was, she was lucky that some part of Jaime Lannister had wanted his sister dead. It wouldn't have done to hesitate.

That was the deal after all.

As had happened each time she had transitioned from Jaime to herself, the visceral memory of pushing her brother out a tower window pulsed through her consciousness.

This time though, it seemed quieter. Soothed by a sense of justice and satisfaction. The visceral feel of her hand on her brother's chest overwritten by that of her hand releasing it's hold of Cersei's wrist.

The look on her face when she'd seen her, really seen her; the fear and confusion and hurt as her mind had struggled to catch up with what was already happening to her body.

She didn't scream.

That was probably for the best, though it felt like ending a sentence without a period.

Or handing down a sentence without swinging the sword.

The keening ring of valyrian steel, the heavy grating slap of it pressing through flesh, the manic jeering of the crowd, the futile pleading of her sister; the harsh fluttering wings of birds taken to fight to escape the unpleasantness of such an unmelodic combination of sound.

These are the things burnt into her memory; what she has left of her father's last day alive.

By comparison, Cersei is silent.

Her death characterized by Arya's chance to look her in the eyes and see horror, confusion, hurt, and recognition. See her slipping through her hands, off the bannister, and into the darkness of night. See her become as small through the powers of perspective as the woman always should have been in life.

It was done.

She wished she'd had more time, time to deliver to Cersei Lannister a fraction of the pain she's delivered unto others, time to let the woman truly realize her fate, time for her to understand who was giving it to her and why it was happening.

But there was a very large and very devoted guard standing at the bottom of the staircase leading into the Queen's chambers and she'd made Jaime Lannister a promise before he'd given her his face.

It was about doing what was necessary.

She had other names that needed to be crossed off her list, and she needed his face to do it. The magic would hold stronger, give more to her, if he gave it willingly.

So she'd promised: no unnecessary pain.

Cersei may have deserved worse, but as Arya prodded her emotions she found that she felt satisfied.

There were others that needed her attentions and she needed to be somewhere else before Cersei's body was found.

In other words. she thought smilingly, releasing a deep breath as she picked what remained of Jaime Lannister off the floor, life must go on.

Bracing herself, she pressed him into the lines of her face until it began to feel natural.

Fingers pressed to her temple, she spoke, "Valar Doheris".

Jaime Lannister left the tower of the Queen with no witnesses but the ever silent Sir Robert Strong.


End file.
